


Virtues

by rougerage



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: And sad stuff, happy stuff, just a load of stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:39:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1669973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rougerage/pseuds/rougerage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Your intellect may be confused, but your emotions will never lie to you."<br/>-Roger Ebert</p>
            </blockquote>





	Virtues

Shame.

\ˈshām\  
1 a : a painful emotion caused by consciousness of guilt, shortcoming, or impropriety b : the susceptibility to such emotion  
2 : a condition of humiliating disgrace or disrepute : ignominy  
3 a : something that brings censure or reproach ; also : something to be regretted : pity b : a cause of feeling shame

It can make you hide in even the most obvious of places, desperately hoping for refuge. The shame of loss, the shame of self, and the shame of dishonor or naïveté are merely a few examples. There are so many more that can plague the psyche, exploiting and ravaging and destroying. No medicine can cure such a dire condition, though many have tried. A mind encompassed by shame is highly dangerous to others and to itself, unpredictable and difficult to understand. Though not entirely impossible.  
And it had begun to gnaw at his exterior. A formerly shameless being.

 

Desperation.

\ˌdes-pə-ˈrā-shən\  
1 : loss of hope and surrender to despair  
2 : a state of hopelessness leading to rashness

It had already taken hold, dulling his sense of what he at first believed to be true. Could he really finish this? Was it not meant for him to search so tirelessly, so desperately? Every lead had seemed so promising, but only left dusty roads and endless possibilities and just more leads, more questions. This objective had taken a toll on him, robbing him of sleep and precious dopamine. The tax now was his hope in the finality of this mission, the ending he so very badly wished for, even stooping to pray and to wish on the first virgin stars of the new night, endlessly, refusing to allow the stakes to raise above him and drown what hope he still held.  
He thought it to be determination. Others believed it was a fool's slow descent to obsessive madness.

• • •

SHELBYVILLE, INDIANA  
MONDAY 16 JUNE 2014  
9:37 A.M. EDT  
FORMER HOME OF JAMES BUCHANAN "BUCKY" BARNES

Somber was the only way to describe the dilapidated building, crumbling away to waste and meaningfully meaningless debris. Once housing a dismantled family of four—the Buchanan family—but later being lost to grief and independence and to the back of a frightfully, accidentally forgetful former resident. Both he and his... friend? Had been unable to see the end of the Second World War, been unable to witness the infamous "Baby Boom" like they should have. But both had been dug icy capsules to keep them cryogenically perfect, keep them hovering on a piano wire—not quite dead, not quite alive either. One had seen the inside of the prison many times, over and over as he was used like a cleaning rag, while the other had seen it only once, forced himself within, with intentions of immediate death that took an unexpected turn.

Both were and are not of that time, not originally meant to outlast. But they had. Both had been pitted against another, frightfully correct memory with the tainted and broken one. Desperation fought desperately to give shame what he needed, the memories he had been robbed of in that frozen cage. And he continued to do so, all the way to this shambled house with the hollow windows and tearful walls.  
It reminded the man of the other, in a round about way. It reminded Steve of Bucky when he had last seen him, in that accursed helicarrier. Lost and betrayed, that's how his face was. Even when Bucky had begun to beat Steve for seemingly no reason, his face still held confusion, the drive for answers. And when Steve had woken on that shore line, rather sure that he had drowned, but upon realizing he was indeed still alive he knew exactly why.

Bucky had saved him, whether it be because he had moved that crushing beam from his person or because Bucky finally truly remembered who Steve was. Personally he hoped it to be the latter, that Bucky remembered their war days when they had taken down all of those H.Y.D.R.A. facilities with the rest of their Howling Commandos, of which Bucky had been the only "casualty". But it wasn't really a casualty, and Steve could still see Bucky falling into that chasm in his mind's eye, see the minute terror mixed with pain. But most of all he had seen a certain acceptance that terrified the super soldier. Bucky had been ready for his death, had accepted that Steve wouldn't be able to get to him in time for the railing to give way, had accepted that Steve would fail—just like he always seemed to in the past. Did Bucky not trust him, even then? Did Bucky not hold any faith that his best friend would save him? Was he even Bucky's best friend?

No, he couldn't think like that. All that Bucky had done for him was because they were friends, not out of pity. However, the dark thoughts stuck to the lining of his head, bothering him even more so as he neared his best friend's childhood home. Maybe Bucky would have remembered this is where he used to live, or found some file telling him where he had been born and would already be here... maybe Steve would finally find him.

And then they could get Bucky's memory back to the best of their abilities and resources. Then when Bucky remembered, the two could catch up, maybe get Bucky settled down somewhere comfortable for him. The two could figure out the modern world together.

The two of them against the world, just like old times.

He could take him to Brooklyn and show him around, show him how much the world had changed. Show the real Bucky how things had changed, not the Winter Soldier. But first, he had to find him.

And that was why Steve was walking towards the abandoned home, dark and lonely in the sweltering heat. The crunch of old gravel and dry grass echoed his heavy footfalls as Steve walked as calmly as possible to the front porch. He found himself clenching his fist around the weathered leather grip on his shield. The same one Bucky had used to protect Steve right before he fell from the train. Before he became the Winter Soldier and killed all those people. Before Steve lost the Bucky he had known.

But the Bucky he knew couldn't be completely lost, right? He had started to remember Steve, so his Bucky had to still be there, somewhere, right? His Bucky... When had he grown so possessive over his friend? Was it when he had seemingly lost Bucky on the train? Was it when he found that Bucky was the infamous Winter Soldier? It had never been a romantic sort of possession, but seeing Bucky so broken in and controlled had unearthed some brotherly instinct which seemed the most plausible stem for this possessive feeling. Bucky was the closest thing to a brother he had ever had, could that be the seed?

Lost in thought, Steve suddenly jolted after feeling his foot collide with something—and effectively splintered the wood there. He cursed under his breath, extracting his boot-clad foot from where it was immersed within the ancient wood.

Not exactly the way he planned to—at the very least—pay homage to his best friend's old home.

Steve now stepped gingerly onto the thin faded porch, seemingly ancient wood faded and splotched with portions both dark and bright. A scorching breeze moved through the hopefully-not-deserted house, and the utter lack of noise made his hopes flicker weakly but he plodded on through the crumpled door frame. The house almost looked as if it had been burned at some point, or if someone had began a fire but didn't have the heart to continue it. Once inside—though not really, as holes riddled the house making it reminiscent of ancient and molded over Swiss cheese—Steve attempted to listen for some form of movement,began to search every corner possible. Lifted piles of old roof, pushed aside fallen walls. But no soul was to be found in the heartless once home.

He had failed once again.


End file.
